


Raft

by comeonlight



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alcohol, Comfort/Angst, Crimson Flower Route, F/F, I Tried, Mid-Canon, Minor Character Death, References to Terrible War Things, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-23 20:00:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20895287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comeonlight/pseuds/comeonlight
Summary: War is a terrible thing. Breaking from the weight of it all, Manuela lets her feet carry her where they will.





	Raft

Manuela had sworn off alcohol. She'd told herself there could be an ambush in the dead of night, that she may have to suddenly tend to an injury so she should always be ready. But the countless injuries, the procedures attempted in vain, the wails of soldiers terrified of death haunt her every waking moment and linger within each dream. It drives her to a near sprint across the monastery in place of her leisurely walks in the now-distant times of peace. Perpetually shallow breath keeps her on edge, sometimes dizzy. The butterflies in her stomach have transformed into vipers and the only cure for their venom is more poison.

"Damn it, Manuela, _ damn it." _She clutches the half-empty bottle so tight it might shatter, fumbles with the sticky cap and—

It sets Manuela's throat on fire. Tears run down her cheeks, carrying makeup with them. Gulp after gulp, she prays that she can forget for a moment, but the ache of lost lives only seems to sting more and more. Pink pieces of clothing scattered about her room start to look like flesh, and old opera posters are drenched in blood. The smell, alcohol — failure, failure, _ failure. _

Out. She has to get out. Without a second thought, maybe without a first, Manuela leaves her room, gasping for air that doesn't reek of mourning but it's _ everywhere. _ Rushed steps take her to the stairs. She takes one of the daggers strapped to her leg into one hand and clutches the railing with the other. Her descent assaults her with the image of Alois, wide-eyed, dead. Leonie, gouged by a lance, fists clenched as she breathed her last. Cyril, reluctantly retreating with eyes full of hatred; a child so willing to kill and so willing to throw away his life for that _ beast _. How did things turn out this way?

"Why?" Manuela whispers to herself. She kneels beside a wooden door not long after she reaches the ground floor. It's hard to walk when the air in her lungs feels like noxious gas. Why did she even ready her knife? To stab shadows? She's more likely to stab herself, in this state. Or maybe the shadows will take her here and now, swallow her whole and drown her.

_ "La la, laaa. Laaa-aa-aaaa." _

Manuela cracks a bitter smile at the sound of that familiar voice. Where had she been headed, anyway? Wherever her feet would take her. And the destination? Dorothea's door.

_ "La-aaa, la la la." _

Mourning hymns. Even through the wood Manuela can hear the wavering in Dorothea's voice, the little cracks that tears could slip through at any second. She should leave. Or maybe since she's here, she should try to give her… former mentee? Peer? Replacement? Superior? Give her _ friend _what comfort she can. A single, weak knock against the door silences the somber tune. Is this the right choice?

Maybe it's crude. Maybe it's just what she needs to hear. The first thing out of Dorothea's mouth when she opens the door is, "You look like shit." And then she kneels down, and she takes Manuela's knife, and she helps her to her feet and inside, to bed, afloat above the shadows. No drowning tonight.

"You sounded sad," Manuela says, leaning on Dorothea's shoulder, curling up against her for all the warmth she can get. Should their positions not be the other way around? "This war is taxing, Thea. You can let it out…" Goddess, she's out of it. Not drunk — not on alcohol, at least. Just tired and drained and cold and hot and the vipers won't stop hissing inside and _ scared, _ and maybe the alcohol _ does _ have her a little loose with her words. "You deserve so much joy."

It's hopeless. Utterly hopeless. Manuela's words dissolve into babbles and whimpers. She's at her absolute worst, all on display for Dorothea to see. And yet no chastising comes. No judgement, no exasperated sigh, not the venting she'd invited. Only gravity, silk against her back, soft, sure hands holding hers, and the tearful face of a beautiful woman in lamplight.

"Don't die on me," Dorothea commands, her voice as serious as it is soft. "Stay with me. Please. When all this is over, I'll… Please let me sing with you. _ For _you."

So that's the case, is it? Manuela is drunk, too drunk for this, or so she tells herself. She's hardly buzzed and yet she feels like she's somewhere off in the clouds, silent in awe of a Siren's sweet whispers. Her eyes fall shut and she breathes in the lingering scent of soap as soft lips touch hers with a hushed, "I'm sorry."

Dorothea pulls away with that, not daring to make another move, her brow already furrowed with guilt. Manuela, seizing what may be her only chance to do what she meant to do in the first place — comfort — squeezes Dorothea's hands. "I'm not." The shameless statement lightens the air a tad, enough to get Dorothea to smile, and who could ask for more than that? Sure, Manuela can't comprehend _ why in the world _Dorothea would love her of all people, but the vipers are at bay and butterflies are soaring in her stomach. She's safe here. Knowing that, Manuela lifts her head and kisses Dorothea again with joy leaking from her eyes. How about that? She's still got it.


End file.
